


Phenomena

by softiedanniie



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: Horror, Hurt/Comfort, Just a bunch of horror tropes rolled into one fic, M/M, Spooky
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-12
Updated: 2018-09-10
Packaged: 2019-06-08 17:17:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15248094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/softiedanniie/pseuds/softiedanniie
Summary: The Psychic Shop next door is a small unassuming building wedged between their Tesco and a busy Starbucks. It has a modest sign outlined in twinkle lights, a glowing evil eye hanging in the deep blue curtained window. On the window is Walk-ins Welcome! written in cheerful bubbly letters. Dan walks by it every day on his way to work without a second glance.





	1. Blue

> _"The phenomena are there, really there! That’s why I say, either you know or you don’t know spirit phenomena exist.“ - Ed Warren, Demonologist_

“It’s not all it’s cracked up to be, you know.”

Dan startles from where he's zoning out in the direction of the crisps aisle. An old woman shuffles slowly past his till, leaning heavily on her trolley. He glances blearily at his coworker. The man gives Dan a wry smile.

“What,” he blinks under the harsh fluorescent lighting. An indecipherable Celine Dion song warbles over the speakers.

His manager smiles in a way that Dan supposes is meant to be comforting. “Having a degree,” PJ says, confidently sticking the sale label (15% OFF!!) on the shelf in front of him.

Dan’s cheeks grows warm as he turns round to punch his employee code on the till's screen. The old lady wanders by again, pushing her trolley past his check-out without getting in line. Dan watches her go, wondering if tripping a customer is a fireable offense.

Not that he would.

“I mean, look at me,” PJ jokes, unwinding another thick roll of sale tags, “I’ve got one and I’m here too.”

“I’m taking a smoke break,” Dan sighs, exiting his check out and making a beeline for the back.

“You don’t smoke!” PJ calls as he sticks on another sale label with a bit too much vigor.

“I might!” Dan calls back, pushing open the back door and stepping out into the brisk autumn air.

He doesn’t smoke.

Dan exhales shakily as he presses his back against the wall behind Tesco, sinking down to a crouch on the dirty ground. It’s been nippier than usual in Manchester that September; he pulls his blue uniform jumper closer around himself to stave off the chill. He leans his head back and closes his eyes, letting it rest against the wall behind him.

He's spent the past month or so in the midst of an existential crisis. He’d called his mum the week before to let her know that he was dropping out of uni ( _“It’s just a bit of a gap, mum, just until I figure some things out,”_ ) and had had to listen to her moan about how he was ruining his life. Like he didn’t already know that.

It had been depressingly easy to pack up what little belongings he'd brought with him and move out of the uni dorms. By some stroke of luck he found a dingy flat a short bus ride away from the part time job he’d managed to hold down over the summer hols and moved in as soon as he could. Sure the building was old, and yes, the elevator was constantly broken, and, okay, sometimes the lights flickered spookily; but it was cheap enough that Dan could afford rent without having to beg his parents for help. He’d given PJ his new schedule ( _"Completely open please give me shifts, oh God”_ ) and resigned himself to a life of crowded busses and sore legs.

The backdoor swings open and Dan flails in surprise, falling on his bum. PJ sticks his head out and looks down, clearly trying to keep a straight face.

“There’s a line, I need you back on reg,” he chirps as he holds out a hand.

Dan groans and takes it, feeling his knees crack as he's pulled to standing. He stretches his neck and dusts off his regulation trousers. Back to the grind.

* * *

A few hours later he’s on his actual break when PJ plunks down backwards in the seat next to him. He looks up from twitter with a half-hearted glare.

“You should go next door after your shift,” PJ says, sipping his Ribena with a gusto Dan envies.

“...to the sex shop?” Dan asks, head tilted.

PJ chokes on his squeeze pack, laughing. “No, you perv," he coughs, "To the psychic.” He grins, clapping a hand on Dan’s shoulder.

Dan jerks, shrugging off PJ’s hand with an uncomfortable laugh. The Psychic Shop next door is a small unassuming building wedged between their Tesco and a busy Starbucks. It has a modest sign outlined in twinkle lights, a glowing evil eye hanging in the deep blue curtained window. On the window is _Walk-ins Welcome!_ written in cheerful bubbly letters. Dan walks by it every day on his way to work without a second glance.

“The psychic?” He repeats, watching PJ thump his chest.

“It’s not-,” PJ clears his throat, “It’s not as silly as it sounds. My friend Phil runs it, took over for his Gran.”

Dan’s phone buzzes. He glimpses down at it: a message from his dad. He locks it with a soft click and places it on the table face down, grabbing his half eaten bag of crisps and shoving a few in his face.

“Whfy?” he mumbles through a full mouth, nose crinkled.

PJ looks at him, his expression gone gentler. Dan palms go a bit clammy. He tries to surreptitiously rub the moisture off on his thighs; he gets crumbs everywhere instead. “I just think he might be able to give you some direction,” PJ says, eyes darting to the movement of Dan’s hands.

Dan looks down, stilling. He brings a thumb to his lips, chews on the corner of his nail. _PJ’s a good person_ , he thinks, feeling his shoulders hunch forward.

“Maybe,” he shrugs, picking up his phone and swiping away his dad’s text (a simple _hey kiddo_ he absolutely does not have the energy to respond to).

PJ sighs, standing up and tossing the empty pouch into the bin in their tiny break room. He hesitates, letting his hand hover over Dan’s shoulder.

“Just... think about it,” he says as he walks out of the room. Dan watches him go.

* * *

Two days later finds Dan standing at his kitchen counter, lazily inhaling his favorite cereal. He finishes and places the empty bowl in the kitchen sink, wiping his hands on the seat of his trousers as he heads towards the front door.

His keys are not hanging on the hook beside it.

Dan curses his clumsiness and groggily begins searching. After about ten minutes of hunting he finds himself bent down on the ground, grasping blindly under the couch. He feels his hand curl around something vaguely key shaped and fist bumps with his free hand. He pulls his arm out from beneath the couch and sure enough, his keys are gripped in his palm. He scratches behind his ear with his free hand. _Must’ve dropped them_ , he thinks, trying to recall the night before.

He can't remember dropping them, but he can't remember not not dropping them. He rolls his eyes at himself and decides not to worry about it, getting up from the floor and hastily heading to work, now late.

The thing is, his keys keep turning up in weirder and weirder places.

First it’s under the couch. Then it’s on his dresser. He finds them in the fridge one morning, balanced atop the milk. Another morning he goes to brush his teeth and they’re sitting in the sink. Dan determines his forgetfulness is getting a tad ridiculous.

A week goes by and he discovers them inside the little succulent he’s placed next to his bed. He picks them up, bewildered. "Why on Earth would I put you here?" he wonders aloud as he shakes the dirt off the keys. They jingle unhelpfully.

He’s halfway out his bedroom door when he hears a crash behind him. He whirls around to find the pot in pieces on the floor. He can feel his breathing stop.

Dan stares at the plant for a second before chuckling nervously; he’d always been a bit of a chicken. He takes a second to breathe, considering - he must’ve gotten caught on the plant and pulled it off the side table when he’d turned to leave.

_"I’ll clean it up later,”_ he nods to himself, satisfied with his logical reasoning, and heads to work.

He misses the bedroom door shutting on its own.

* * *

He should have brought an umbrella.

Dan’s standing under the awning in front of Tesco, shift officially over. He shivers in the wind, watching helplessly as the sky weeps. The clouds had opened up around an hour ago and Dan had looked out the store window, cursing softly under his breath. The customer in his check out line had given him a dirty look. “Sorry,” he had sheepishly mumbled, speeding up his grocery scanning. The rain pelted against the store windows, unforgiving.

He hadn’t planned for this. Dan was wearing just his uniform jumper with no coat or umbrella. Now he's stood out in the elements, with little protection, debating the merits of making a mad dash for the bus stop. He can feel his hair frizzing.

Dan glances over at the Psychic Shop, teeth chattering. The soft glow of the evil eye warmly illuminates the rain. He flexes the hands holding his jumper, shifting from side to side. With one last look at the thundering sky he scurries inside.

A small bell tinkles as he pushes the door open. To Dan’s surprise, there’s not a gaudy tapestry or cliche crystal ball in sight. The shop’s clean, with crisp white walls and new wood flooring. The two overstuffed chairs in the waiting room are a mismatch of bright greens and blues, vibrant and cheerful. There’s a desk separating the outside world from a back room that’s hidden behind a beaded curtain. _“Maybe one cliche,”_ Dan deems, hands travelling to his back pockets as he ambles further into the room. The desk is covered in clutter - little knick knacks, a photo of an older woman, a stuffed lion resting against a small sign that says _Out to Lunch!_ in the same bubbly writing that graces the window outside.

Dan’s brow furrows, shoulders sagging slightly. He’s caught now, between awkwardly taking up space inside until the psychic comes back or braving the outdoors. Water drums on the roof, with no signs of slowing.

The decision is made for him when the beaded curtain parts and a man steps through.

The first word that comes to Dan’s mind is _blue_.

“Hi!” he says in a voice that is somehow bright and low at the same time, “How can I help you?”

Silence stretches between them before Dan realizes he’s been asked a question. He can feel his neck start to burn.

“Oh, erm, PJ sent me?” Dan says, rubbing the back of his neck trying to will away the ruddiness, “For a reading? He said to ask for Phil.”

“That would be me,” the man says as he points a thumb to his chest. “Phil Lester,” he introduces himself, holding out his hand.

“Dan,” Dan replies, taking it, heartbeat thundering in his ears.

Phil smiles, tongue captured between his teeth. “Alright, Dan,” he says, waving his arm in a  _come this way_ motion, “Follow me.”

He turns and disappears back through the beaded curtain.

Dan pulls at a loose thread in his jumper, shuffling around the desk and slipping through the curtain behind Phil. Rain batters the roof softly.

The back room feels cozy - curtains drape across wide windows, softly-lit lamps bathing the room in a soothing dim glow. A simple table is surrounded with an antique armchair and a comfortable looking couch, a fluffy plaid blanket hung over one arm. But what draws the eye is the overabundance of _green_. There are at least a dozen plants of varying sizes, ferns pushed up against the walls, english ivy and spider plants hanging from the ceiling - a small peperomia decorates the round table between the seatings. Twinkle lights wind between the hanging planters, adorning the edges of the walls. Dan gently feels the leaf of a nearby plant and wonders how they could all possibly be kept alive.

“That one’s called Susan,” Phil quips, taking a seat in the armchair and gesturing to the couch across from him. Dan straightens, biting his lower lip. He moves to the couch, folding his legs under himself and resting the blanket across his thighs. He folds his hands in his lap.

“I feel like I’m in therapy,” Dan blurts, cringing internally.

“I mean, that’s kind of what I do? That feels like what I do anyway,” Phil says genially, expression gentle. He crosses a foot over his knee.

“What should I say?” Dan asks, shifting in his seat.

“Well,” Phil begins, tapping out a rhythm on his ankle, “There’s a few different ways we could do this. I like to start just by talking about your life.” He stops tapping, “When did you drop out of school?”

Dan freezes, eyes zeroed in on Phil’s fingers. His head whips up. “How do you know about that?” he questions, slightly cross, “Did PJ tell you about me?”

“No, I’m psychic, remember?” Phil says, shaking his head and spreading his palms wide, “I can’t, like, tell you when you’re going to die or anything _spooky_ like that.” He punctuates his words with a wiggle of his fingers. “I just get these feelings about people and make some really good guesses. The first thing that pops into my head is usually right,” he shrugs.

“Besides,” Phil says, “Some things are easy to figure out. You’re clearly not from around here and I doubt you’d move up north just to work at Tesco.”

Dan can feel his jaw hanging open. “How do you know I work at Tesco?” he asks, slightly dazzled.

“You’re still in your uniform, Dan,” Phil grins.

Dan flushes, looking away to focus on a cactus instead of Phil.

“I did drop out of school,” he mumbles, twisting the blanket in his lap between his fingers. “I… didn’t see the point in continuing. I hated the subject, I hated the people in my programme, I just... hated all of it.” Dan smiles weekly, “So I quit. Big surprise.” He looks down, thunder rumbling in the distance.

“I’m sorry to hear about that,” Phil offers empathetically, eyebrows knit, “You must be going through a lot of change right now.”

“I’m not sure what to do about it yet,” Dan shrugs, running a hand through his fluffy curls, “I thought I’d work and eventually figure it out. Maybe find enlightenment in the produce section.”

Phil strokes his chin, the image of contemplation. “I know what we should do,” he says cheerfully, lifting his index finger in an _aha!_ moment, “let’s read your tarot!” He opens a hidden drawer in the round table and pulls out a small green bag. Inside is a classic tarot deck that slips out of the pouch and into Phil’s palm. He begins to shuffle them.

“The cards will give us a good idea of what to do next,” he explains as he shuffles, looking down at the cards in concentration, “The future is malleable, and the cards aren’t going to spell everything out for you, but they work as a, like, conduit for your emotions.” He smiles up at Dan and places the deck on the table between them. There’s an energy coming off Phil now, a genuine excitement.

“Cut the deck into three smaller decks with your left hand,” he instructs, leaning back in his armchair. The rain drums above them.

Dan glances at the cards and figures _“fuck it, why not”_ before separating the deck into three equally sized piles.

“Now stack them in any order you’d like,” Phil says, brandishing his palms, "Left hand still, please."

Dan hesitates briefly; the topmost card of the left stack eerily jumping out to him. He gingerly reassembles the deck, placing the left stack at the very top.

Phil grins, taking the deck and placing it closer to him. With a slightly dramatic flourish (Dan has to stop himself from rolling his eyes and laughing) Phil pulls the top three cards and places them from left to right: the Three of Swords, the Devil, and the Lovers.

“Typical,” Dan laughs, pointing to the Three of Swords with its red heart run through, “Even my tarot cards are emo.”

A startled laugh bursts from Phil’s chest and he shakes his head. He taps the cards in order from left to right. “This is your past, your present, and your future,” he reveals, serious now, pointing to the first card, the Three of Swords, “This card in particular is loss... it’s, well, it’s known as the heartbreak card.” Dan winces.

“The Three of Swords is kind of painful?” Phil says, making eye contact, his face pinched in an awkward _sorry_ , “The card’s trying to say that there’s deep pain you’re holding onto. To be happy, you need to let it go.”

Dan chews his thumbnail, recollecting the conversation he’d had with his mum the week before ( _“Mum, I swear, I’m not doing drugs, I’m just not sure law’s for me...”_ ).

Phil must feel his discomfort and thankfully moves on. He taps a gangly finger on the middle card. “This is the Devil,” he says, a bit peppier than the somber card would usually dictate.

“So I’m secretly Satan?” Dan laughs, resting his elbows on the table.

“ _No_ , emo kid,” Phil says, giggling exasperatedly as he leans forward, “The Devil seems quite scary, but it’s more along the lines of the last card.”

Dan can feel the smile slip from his face. He burrows himself into the couch and returns his hands to his lap. His stomach tightens.

“The Devil says there’s some kind of bondage in your life,” Phil says as he clears his throat.

“Kinky,” Dan smirks softly.

Phil blushes, the rosy tint creeping over his pale complexion. Dan can feel his smirk widen.

“Not that kind of bondage,” Phil admonishes quickly, indicating to the two people at the base of the Devil’s throne. “Do you see how they’re chained?”

“This isn’t exactly helping your case,” Dan jokes.

Phil’s checks are scarlet. “No, see, their chains are loose,” he points out, “They’re chained but they could easily escape, if they wanted to. The card is saying whatever you think is holding you back? It’s all in your head. You don’t have to believe any of it.”

“So this card is my depression,” Dan intones flatly, crossing his arms.

“It could be,” Phil reasons, “If that’s what you feel it is. I like to go with my gut feeling, it’s usually right.”

“So, what,” Dan says, gesturing in the air with his left hand, “The last card is, like, me being a two faced gemini or something?”

“No ah, actually,” Phil stammers, gripping his own elbows, “the Lovers sometimes means romantic love. It can be change. It could even be both!” Phil catches Dan’s gaze. “You might be about to start a new relationship,” he says.

It’s Dan’s turn to flush. He has to avert his eyes from the intensity of Phil’s look. The string lights twinkle.

“This is actually quite a good pairing,” Phil explains, pointing between the Devil and the Lovers, “The cards are telling you that right now you’re stuck in a dark place, but you have a choice. You can choose to stay chained, or you can choose to break free.”

Phil’s face softens. Dan maps the crinkles in the corners of his eyes.

“You _can_ be happy, Dan,” Phil says simply.

“Right,” Dan says, cheeks hot. He stands quickly, blanket falling to the floor. Phil looks up, startled.

“Sorry, just remembered I have… a thing,” he stammers lamely, pointing a thumb over his shoulder. The rain patters softly outside. Dan figures it’s worth the damp to be able to cringe in private.

“Oh, of course,” Phil says, hesitantly standing and following Dan out, “Thanks for coming by. It was nice to meet you.”

“You too,” Dan says, extending his hand once more.

As Phil reaches out to shake Dan’s hand his shy smile slips off his face. His grip around Dan’s hand has gone tight, and Dan can feel his knuckles grinding together. He hisses in pain and tries to pull back but Phil won’t let go. He’s staring, wide eyed, at the area just above Dan’s head.

Dan lets out a small _ow_ just as Phil gasps, dropping Dan’s hand like it’s on fire. His face has gone ashen, blue eyes darting around the room.

“Sorry,” he croaks, shaking out his hand, “Sorry. I’m not sure what came over me.” His laugh is high and thin.

Dan smiles warily, holding his hand to his chest. “It’s fine,” he assures Phil, rubbing his knuckles, taking small steps towards the exit.

Phil reaches his hand out, like he wants to touch Dan again, then falters and drops it. “Before you leave…” he trails off, leaving the backroom through the beaded curtain, and rummages through the front desk’s many drawers.

Dan follows, watching Phil with a cautious curiosity. He steps back in surprise when Phil suddenly straights with an _aha!_ , something small and dark clenched in his hand.

Phil turns on him, hesitation on his face before he nods to himself; he takes the hand cradled against Dan’s chest and gently presses the object into Dan’s open palm. It’s a small raw black crystal, wrapped in a black cord.

“Please,” Phil pleads, “Take this.”

Dan closes his hand around the crystal, equal parts flattered and a little weirded out. Phil is watching his face intensely, and Dan finds he has to avert his eye, laughing nervously.

“How much do I owe you?” he asks, suddenly mentally kicking himself for not asking at the beginning of the session. Hopefully what little money he has with him is enough.

But Phil shakes his head. “Don’t worry about it,” he says, crossing his forearms in front of him, “Consider this one a freebie. Friends and family discount.”

Dan openly stares at this mystifying person. “Are you sure?” he asks, incredulous.

“Any friend of PJ’s is a friend of mine,” Phil asserts confidently. His smile seems more reserved now, like he can’t quite shake whatever it was that had come over him before. Dan’s not very good at comforting people, he thinks.

He decides not to look a gift horse in the mouth. He offers a quick “Thank you,” and scurries out of the shop before the odd man can change his mind. The rain has calmed down to a drizzle. He legs it to the bus stop, peculiar necklace clutched in hand.

One day he’ll deal with his problems instead of running. Today he has a bus to catch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had an idea the other day for a fic in which Dan is being haunted and is completely oblivious about it, and psychic!Phil is desperately trying to help him. I'll probably be cramming as many horror tropes into this as I can, so be warned.
> 
> Also I am new to reading tarot, so forgive me for any inaccuracies.
> 
> Thanks for reading! You can find me on tumblr & twitter @softiedanniie :)


	2. Laundry

Dan hates doing the wash.

There’s no machine in his flat, and the lift in his building is busted, so he has no choice but to haul his basket all the way down to the laundrette on the lower ground floor. It’s difficult not to trip over his feet on his way down the stairs, long arms full of black clothing. He grumbles the whole way down, planning out a scathing email to his landlord in his head.

On top of the difficulty getting down there, the laundrette itself is just plain creepy. Dan knows he’s slightly more skittish than the average person, okay, but anyone would be creeped out by the dimly lit lines of machines. There’s no heat either, so Dan has to shiver his way through his least favorite chore. He just wants to be done quickly so he can go back upstairs and play video games in his pants.

He’s just closing the lid on the washing machine when something on the far wall clatters onto the concrete floor.

Dan startles, the lid slamming shut. The machines are situated in rows facing each other, a line of light bulbs hanging from the ceiling. Something must have fallen to the ground, he guesses, but he can’t see anything. He rolls his shoulders, annoyed at himself for being scared of nothing, and turns the machine on. As he does, the light furthest away from him flickers then goes out.

He freezes, hand still on the knob, gooseflesh raising on his arms. The air is cold and still, so cold his breath comes in wisps visible from his parted lips. He watches, immobile, as the next closest light in the row goes out, feels cold sweat begin to prickle at his neck.

_“It’s just an old building,”_ Dan tries to convince himself, his body angled towards the back wall. Another light bulb flickers, then blinks into darkness. He can’t see the wall now.

He moves, slowly, towards the stairs, sure that he shouldn’t turn his back. He’s shivering, blood turned to ice, his teeth chattering against his will.

The filament in the next light pops, shrouding a quarter of the room in darkness. Logically, there should be enough light from the rest of the bulbs to keep it illuminated, if dimly. Instead Dan finds himself staring into inky darkness as he shuffles backwards.

One by one the lights go out, each more violently than the last. Dan should be moving faster, should be upstairs by now, but he feels a bit like he’s moving through molasses.

It’s like he wants to leave but his body wants to stay.

He’s shaking, heartbeat in his throat. He knows that if he doesn’t go faster he’ll be plunged into darkness. It feels as though something’s grabbed his ankles and won’t let go. The light above him flickers.

_It’s Britney bitch._ _♪_

Dan screeches, hand clutching his chest as the thumping base of _Gimme More_ chimes muffled from his back pocket. He fumbles for his phone, screen lit up with a call, and swipes hastily to answer.

“Peej,” he rasps, “What.”

“And hello to you too!” PJ’s voice comes through the earpiece of his iphone loud and cheerful. Dan tilts his head up, staring at the the bulb hanging above.

It glows calmly.

He steps towards the stairs - whatever had come over him was gone, but he doesn’t turn round until the door to the laundrette is firmly shut. Dan sprints up the stairs, taking them two at a time, and bursts onto the blessedly bright ground floor. He pants for a second, doubled over, trying to will his soul to return to his body, before he realizes that PJ is still talking. He hastily brings the phone back to his ear.

“...and I just think it would be a great change of pace for you, Dan.”

“Erm,” Dan tries to catch his breath, “Yeah.”

“Great! So we’ll meet at mine and go from there.”

“...I’m sorry, what?”

He hears a sigh come through the receiver.

“You were just agreeing to go out for a pint with me and some of my uni mates,” PJ explains, and Dan winces guiltily. He never goes out, especially on a lad’s night, and he has work in the morning. Plus, it’s laundry night.

He glances at the door to the laundrette.

“Right,” he says, fingernails digging crescent moons into his forearm, “Right yeah, I’ll be there.”

* * *

When Dan walks into the pub a few hours later he nearly turns around and runs home.

He opens the door and feels the warmth from inside brush against his cold skin. The pub is small, cozy, and clearly has been around for quite a while. It’s not terribly busy for a work night, the rowdiest group taking up the largest booth in the far corner. PJ is stood by the edge of the group, unfortunately quick to spot Dan and wave him over. Dan crosses his arms, wishing he had gone with his original plan of staying home.

“You made it!” PJ grins; he seems like he might be tipsy already, though it’s hard to tell with PJ. Sometimes Dan is unsure if that’s just his personality. He stands and puts his arm around Dan’s shoulders, like they’re friends and not coworkers, introducing him to his uni mates. Dan can feel his eyes widen - he recognizes one of them.

“...and this is-”

“Phil,” Dan interrupts, “Yeah we’ve, erm, we’ve met.”

PJ’s eyebrows lift, face a mixture of surprise and _oh_ _we’ll definitely talk about this later_.

“Hello again,” Phil tilts his head with a smile. Dan puts a hand up in an awkward wave. He has to push down the rising urge to face palm.

PJ glances between the two of them before clapping his hands together, “Right. Next round’s on me lads!” The group cheers.

He gestures for Dan to sit and heads off to the bar - apparently alcohol makes him generous. The only spot left is right next to Phil, so Dan squeezes into the booth, long legs bunched up underneath the table.

“So,” Dan can feel his knee knocking into Phil’s, “Lad’s night? Didn’t peg you as the type.”

Phil has his mouth open to reply when the man next to him claps his hand on his shoulder, causing him to jump, “Phil never goes out with us! Always says he’s too busy,” The man laughs, making Phil sway in his seat, eyes fixed on his drink.

“I just had a feeling about tonight,” Phil says, shrugging, “That I should come.”

He looks up, catching Dan’s eyes with a smile, and something in Dan’s chest tightens.

Luckily PJ returns, hands full of pints, rescuing himself from having to figure out what to say.

A few drinks later, Dan’s starting to feel the effect of the alcohol. His head feels airy, fuzzy, the opposite of a headache. He laughs louder, he thinks, than he does usually. He’s decided that PJ’s friends aren’t actually that bad; they don’t expect him to jump into the bants, so he can just sit there and enjoy not being alone for once.

It’s strange. He’d gone out with his uni friends before, but that had always been to nightclubs - with their loud music, flashing lights, scantily clad people crammed onto a crowded dance floor, grinding against each other with abandon. He didn’t exactly hate it; he kind of enjoyed the opportunity to not think about the shitty dorm he’d be returning to that night or the shitty homework he was putting off or the shitty way everything about uni made him feel. If he ended up drinking too much and making an arse of himself, well, that’s just part of the experience, right?

This is different, softer somehow. Dan decides he likes it.

Through the haze of it all he stays acutely aware of all the points of contact between him and Phil.

One of PJ’s friends is regaling them with a spooky story, swearing he saw a ghost on a camping trip once. Dan’s barely listening, mind drifting, when Phil nudges his side. “Scared?” he asks. Phil’s accent is thick, distinctly northern, his voice deep. Dan wonders if he can tell what he’s thinking.

“You wish,” Dan laughs, brain floaty.

Phil hums, hand coming up to fix a few hairs in his quiff that have gone astray, “Not easy to scare then?”

“Oh no,” Dan’s eyes track the movement of Phil’s fingers through his hair, “I live in a constant state of terror.”

That earns him a laugh. Dan feels his stomach swooping - Phil’s laugh is absolutely infectious.

“I literally had to run up the stairs earlier,” Dan takes a swig of his drink, a bit of liquid sloshing over the edge and on to his hand, “And I don’t _do_ exercise, so what does that say about me?”

“Yeah?” Phil says genially, like Dan’s not the most awkward human on the planet, “Something chasing you?”

“No,” Dan says petulantly, “That would be crazy.”

Phil looks up, eyes focused somewhere above Dan’s head. Dan cranes his neck back, running a hand over his curls, hoping they’re behaving for once in his life. Phil’s eyes return to his face, then flit away, a strange look in his features. Dan feels like he’s said the wrong thing.

“Yeah,” Phil sips from his own pint, “Crazy.”

* * *

Lad’s night, as it turns out, isn’t the torture he thought it would be. PJ’s friends are alright, if a bit rowdy, though after tonight Dan figures he’s hit his quota for meeting new people for the entire month. Not that he paid much attention to most of PJ’s friends.

He’d spent most of the time bumping shoulders with Phil, talking below the din of the pub. Phil’s funny, in the silly, punny way, where Dan’s humor is more sarcastic and dry. They, surprisingly, have quite a few interests in common. Their conversation feels easy.

It’s nice, Dan thinks, to experience something easy for a change.

It’s been a few hours and there’s talk now of hopping pubs, but Dan can feel that he’s on critical social battery, and he has a shift at work the next morning. PJ and his friends have vacated the booth when Dan announces that he’s going to head out. At this point PJ is way past the point of tipsy, so Dan’s not even sure if he even notices as they all wander out the pub.

Phil, on the other hand, offers to walk him home.

“You really, really don’t have to do that,” Dan waves his hands in front of him, “I promise I’m still mostly sober, I’ll be fine.”

“Come on, Mister Constant State of Terror,” Phil says cheekily, “Can’t have you dropping dead of a heart attack on the way home.”

Dan wonders if he should be worried about his inability to say no to Phil.

It’s a short distance to Dan’s building. They walk side by side, cold hands shoved into jacket pockets, tall figures matched in height. Cars pass by, shining their headlamps on the pair as they make their way down the road. Dan keeps waiting for an awkward silence but it never happens.

“No fucking way,” Dan says, shaking his head, “There’s no way you were on tv. Nope.”

“I swear!” Phil crosses one finger over his chest, “You can look up the episode online. Although I will warn you, I’ve got some pretty embarrassing hair.”

“Great, now I _have_ to look it up,” Dan says, and Phil sticks his tongue out. They approach the looming exterior of his building.

“This is me,” Dan comes to a stop under a lamp post. He doesn’t want to go in, not when it’s the first time in months he’s actually having fun. For probably the billionth time he curses his job and morning shifts in general.

They stand under the amber light, lapsing into silence. Dan isn’t sure what to say. All he knows is that he doesn’t want to go back to his quiet, empty flat. He can't quite remember getting along with someone so well so fast - hell, he can't even remember getting along with his girlfriends this well. He figures it's a fluke, that tomorrow Phil's going to realize that actually, Dan's rather annoying, and then Dan will just have to take the long way round to get to Starbucks. The thought makes him want to bury himself under his duvet and not come out.

The thing is, Phil hasn't given any indication that he's like that. There is something odd, though, about him - an intensity that surfaces sometimes while they're talking. It had been there when they had met the other day.  _"Maybe he really is psychic,"_  Dan thinks as he watches Phil worry his bottom lip between his teeth.

“Do you still have that necklace I gave you?” Phil asks abruptly.

“...Erm,” Dan laughs, hand rubbing the back of his neck, “Are you sure you can’t actually read minds?”

"Right," Phil is avoiding eye contact, "Sorry, don't know where that came from. Forget it."

Dan's mouth flattens into a line. He tugs the leather cord out from under his shirt, embarrassed at being caught. The black crystal on the end swings in front of his chest, smooth edges glinting in the crepuscular glow of the street lamp they’re under.

Dan’s just debating the merits of running inside and never leaving his flat again when Phil _beams_.

It’s a little bit like looking into the sun. Dan feels like he should look away. He doesn’t.

“Good,” Phil’s put his hands in his front pockets, one turned around oddly. It looks uncomfortable, but he doesn’t seem to care, “That’s… good.”

Dan doesn't know why it's good. He's just glad Phil's not weirded out. 

“Okay," Phil says with a nod of his head, "I’ll see you around, Dan.” He turns to leave, hand up in goodbye not actually turning fully around until Dan waves back. Dan watches Phil walk down the street, hands in his pockets, until he rounds the corner out of sight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this actually took 10 million years.
> 
> You can follow me on tumblr & twitter at @softiedanniie :)


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